


down on these bright blue city lights

by rikacain



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Gen, M/M, will not be continued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:20:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/pseuds/rikacain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a vaguely dystopian world, people struggle to make a living.</p>
<p>Q may have what he call a safe job, but when he hacks into the wrong person's files it may be more than he should have done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	down on these bright blue city lights

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to post this for the 00Q Big Bang. I never did get around to it.
> 
> This fic is over 10K words, a feat I am very pleased to accomplish; but the people whom my Silva and James are based after are fading in friendship and my involvement in this fandom diminishing. I write little nowadays, be it due to life or simply no inspiration.
> 
> I am unsure as to whether this fic will be continued. I am happy to tell you what happens after, but may never write the words out myself.

There is a knock on the door.

Q looks up from his laptop, glancing at the door. Another knock resounds yet again and he snaps his laptop shut, shoves it under the convenient pile of dingy old newspaper dating back to a month ago and pushes the chair back, scraping it over the concrete floor. Whoever it is at the door knocks the third time, and in his haste he rushes over and wrenches the door open, only to have the chain holding it in place.

He peers out at the stranger, wary of the slim space between door and door frame, where a slim knife can easily fit through. The man is dressed in a well-pressed suit, reminiscent of the attire Q often sees government officers wearing whenever a routine check has been scheduled at his workplace, holding a cane lightly in one hand in a manner that has him suspecting that the cane is for aesthetic purposes rather than anything else. Said man smiles demurely at him.

"Mrs. Staunton is out for the week," he says (recites) dryly. "Please come back some other day."

"Mrs. Staunton doesn't exist," the man says pleasantly. Q narrows his eyes at the man - Mrs. Staunton has been perfected as an alibi complete with a job and ID card, something that the government system has accepted as truth. This man is not from the government - the shoes are far too shined, for one - so he can only be from up above. "Could I come in? I've come so far."

"Then you have far to go back to," Q says shortly, and shuts the door on him - only to have the cane wedge the door into place.

"You're the Quartermaster," the man says, as if Q has not just denied him entry. Q rattles the door, reminding him of how unwelcome he is to no effect. "You come very highly recommended. I would like to hire you."

"I am not a whore," he bites out.

"That you are not," the man agrees amiably. "But you are a hacker, and I happen to be in sore need of one. A good one. I promise to pay you handsomely."

Q considers.

"In advance," the man adds, and a brown envelope is slid under the door. Q grabs it gingerly, opening it and peering inside - the approximate amount is nothing to be startled at, but it could pay for the annual mandatory health check up and cover two months of rent. As for the remaining sum, he could use it to get by before the next pay check is given out. It looks promising.

It smells like a trap.

"And," the man continues, "the other half will be given to you if you accept. Double that total once you finish the job."

Q calculates. Six months of rent and maybe he can pay for James and Kincade’s check-up too. He'll have to convince the both of them first, though. It looks more than promising, and he almost has to stop himself from saying 'yes' immediately.

"I don't want anyone else banging on my door," he tells the man.

"The only people you will ever bring to your door are your own guests and the results of any mistakes you make yourself during your job," the man says. Q can imagine the smile on his face, and curses himself for giving away that he's easily swayed by money. He shuts the door as the cane withdraws, draws back the chain and opens the door, wide. The man stands there with an amused smile (damn him) on his face. "You are younger than I expected," he observes.

Q scowls back. "And you’re an idiot for coming down here, looking like you bleed money. Have you a mind to get robbed?"

The man looks mildly bemused. "That is true," he acknowledges. "I take it that you accept my proposal?" The smugness in his tone tells Q what he expects the answer to be.

"You still haven't told me about the job," Q reminds him.

He smiles. The smile looks dangerously sharp, and Q shivers. "I'm getting to that," the man says lightly. "May I come in?"

"Make yourself at home," Q says grudgingly, and lets him in.

* * *

If anyone asks, Q is a young man who works at the South Pillar's power plant; a hardly unusual choice for an occupation compared to any other factory or even the abattoir in the East. (Just for the record, the stench in the East is truly horrid, and is he glad he lives in the South district.) Not much is known about him since he often keeps to himself, save for the name he goes by (Geoffrey or Quentin or Aaron, no one bothers), the tea he drinks during breaks and the occasional input in an otherwise boring conversation. Like a tree within a forest, he is mostly indistinguishable from the rest of the workers.

(Ask the right person and Q is one of the only ten hackers in the world, arrogant and a cocky little whelp. He has his uses, but that right person could do without the sarcasm that comes along with the man. Q laughs at him.)

The truth of the matter is, Q hacks to survive. It is no secret that everyone has an illegal job on the side, considering the meagre pay they get from the official job they are forced into. He knows a couple of colleagues who head down underground to run a stall selling clothes from Up Above in the black market, and a couple more that deals in recreational drugs pilfered from the labs.

(He knows those who gets caught, the examples they are made of for everyone below to see - hanging beneath the rock of the ceiling that holds up the city above them, bodies ramming into the pillars that support the structure with every gust of the wind. He also knows that everyone has no choice but to live.)

Hacking is something taught to Q by his mentor - something he has become very good at, even after the old man has passed. Hacking is also lucrative, especially when the businesses up above are even more cut-throat and vicious when it comes to taking out the competition. There's always enough money to pay for the rent with every secret unearthed from an unsuspecting browser, and more if there are firewalls and security.

Q likes the latter. It gives him more of a challenge; all those dirty little secrets can just be left in a corner for all he cares.

But secrets are secrets, and secrets can be sold for the right price. The amount of things Q knows is almost incriminating, but not enough to attract attention from anywhere. This suits him just fine; he goes looking for trouble (profit) and he brings none home. All is well.

"So how did yer bring this one home, lad?" Kincade says gruffly as he wrenches a piece of scrap of metal out of the junk pile. The old man runs a recycling shack from the rubbish those up above throws out, and Q helps out every other afternoon or so. The metal gets thrown into a basket, rattles against the other sordid pieces of metal and Kincade rolls the tattered sleeves of his shirt up, getting ready for the next heap of metal.

"I don't know," Q admits. He yanks another piece of metal out as Kincade lifts the pile up, dropping it in the basket. "He said I came highly recommended."

"Man's butterin' yer up," Kincade interrupts.

"I knew that," Q shoots back immediately. "But there might be some truth to it."

"You're not the biggest fish in the pond, Q," James, the only other person helping to run the place, says as he walks over. His attire is similar to Q's own - a dully coloured shirt and black pants. No one bothers to create a fashion statement of any sort, not when there is no one to appreciate it. His basket is also full, much to the hacker's annoyance. "Your security is probably compromised."

"Try not to use concepts you don't fully understand, Bond," Q gripes. James quirks a smile at him and yanks another piece of scrap out, tossing it into Kincade's basket. Q glowers at him as Kincade eyes James appraisingly.

"James has a point," the old man says.

"Bloody good point, but I already took the job." He turns to look at James, who is frowning at him. "What?"

"It's a trap, Q," James says, slowly.

"A trap is only worth something when the person is compromising," Q scoffs. He knows nothing that would threaten anyone significantly, why would they bother with him?

"Or when it's someone they want to take down," James says, serious. "Q, you may not be as well-known as Mr. Rat - "

"His handle is last-rat-standing, for goodness' sake - "

"But you're formidable in your own right," James finishes smoothly. He stares at Q, and Q finds his mouth suddenly very dry. The man has always been attractive in his own right, if not out of Q's league. "Be careful."

"Right," he says. "Well. Thank you for your concern." He turns away from James to aggressively tug at a piece of metal sticking out of the pile. Kincade shakes his head and leans over to pull on it sharply.

The piece of metal they pull out is worth two months of rent, Q notes absently. Kincade takes his fraying hat off.

"Would yer look at that," he says. "Jackpot."

* * *

Not everyone down below gets access to the internet, considering that you had to be able to either get your own satellite up above or hijack one already there. Q is fortunate enough to have a mentor who found hijacking as easy as breathing, and with his death Q inherited his laptop, skills and almost posh accent. He remembers the lashes he would get any time he slipped into the slum's slang, and that itself conditions him well.

Sometimes he wonders where his mentor has come from - the dazed look he would get when on a computer was discomfiting at the best of times. But the old man is dead and gone, and Q only has memories of him to be thankful for. He remembers crying only five months after the body was carted away to be cremated, alone in his now-empty flat and hopeless. It was only a year later that he finally decided to venture into the realm of criminal cyber activities, and decided that he quite liked it.

He turns the laptop on, finger tapping impatiently as it boots up. Mallory ('Gareth Mallory,' he says, 'a pleasure.') had wanted him to hack into the server of one of the companies that had something to do with health or medicine - something along those lines. (Q faintly remembers seeing the name on the syringes whenever they are required to take a jab for some vaccine or another.) There has been rumours of a new vaccine, Mallory has stated just as vaguely, due to how increasingly obsolete the old one is becoming. He wants assurance that the health company is not sitting on their bums.

(“Is this even your own company,” Q asks. Mallory deflects.)

The desktop window shows and he gets to work - open the program up and find the email database of the company. Several fake servers later, he hits a heavily encrypted one and lets the computer do the work as he pads over to the definitely under-stocked kitchen. He'd have to head down under to the black market for some more tea and bread, maybe some seasonings and vegetables to use with the rations of rice, oil and wheat he already gets. Other sorts of meat cost a nightmare but he gets some whenever James deigns to go hunting in the wilderness just outside of the city's boundaries, so he's not missing out much. Besides, tea is much more vital to his survival.

(He has tried growing his own vegetables, rearing his own animals and hunting before. It's almost sad to the say that he has no green fingers whatsoever and the carrots died within weeks, the goats got stolen before he could even attempt milking them, and when James attempted to teach him how to shoot he had almost shot James' shoulder off, as well as nearly getting them caught when they sneaked back into the city. They don't speak of that incident ever again.)

The computer pings and Q comes back with his chipped mug, inhaling the delicious scent. There was, he notes, a new vaccine in development. Interestingly, there was no table of comparison between the old vaccine and the new vaccine to emphasis the progress of the development, nor any mention of what the vaccine does. He opens the research development page up and takes a screenshot of it, saving it onto the thumb drive Mallory gives him, before reading the text itself.

It tells him nothing. Q's curiosity is piqued - they inject this into everyone during the annual check up and frankly no one has no idea how it protects them from the vicious disease contracted if you're truly unlucky. He's quite sure he knows how a vaccine works, but there is literally no information on this particular one.

(Q has seen James fighting against it himself, feverish and desperate. Kincade had watched over him even if the man is not his own son - and sometimes Q could see his mouth moving in prayers of the past. Q does not believe in any higher powers, but he believed that James would be able to make it through. He’s too stubborn not to.)

He leans back in his chair, contemplating. Where will he find a discussion about a vaccine that’s already been released? He’ll have to dig deeper, definitely, and wipe his tracks more thoroughly than he has expected to - but is finding out the truth worth a shot, even if that truth is a small flickering chance?

(Yes.)

He goes in deeper, looking through past archives, into old conversations and discussion about the vaccine. It takes almost three decades in before he hits a result.

_The mutation of P. Lipasadea has rendered the vaccine less capable of its original function by an estimated 70%. Immediate development of a new vaccine is advised_. Q sits back in his chair, contemplating - why have they taken so long to develop a new vaccine? Why do they still distribute the obsolete one?

He takes a screenshot of that too, just in case, before digging deeper and finding nothing else. Half a century into the mess he gives up and returns to the email database again, looking through new emails sent through the system. More development on the new vaccine, it seems, although not in the successful direction.

But wait. He scans the words. He frowns.

"Insufficient human resources?" he reads out. There is plenty of unemployed people on the streets, and plenty of job vacancies in these particular company - he sees them advertising wherever he goes. There's even a branch for them down below. 'Insufficient human resources' is clearly bullshit. "Recommendation for solution: attract humans below as workers for the company… extensive screening process to ensure no diseases, the usual blood tasting recommended."

Q blinks. "Blood tasting," he repeats.

He logs off the server, wipes his tracks and leaves an email for Mallory. The desktop shines pale blue as he takes another sip of his lukewarm tea, as he mulls over what he had read.

"Blood tasting," he says again.

God, those above must have really weird hobbies, he thinks as he turns the laptop off and heads to bed.

* * *

"Blood tasting," James says when Q drops by to help out after his morning shift at the power plant. There was talk among his colleagues, about how a chunk of concrete crumbled away from the foundation holding the city up above and fell down onto a factory producing linen and crushed everyone to death, but blood tasting seems to interest James more.

"I couldn't have pronounced it any better," Q tells him dryly, a jibe at the older man's constant effort to speak without an accent. James scoffs slightly and holds the pile up as Kincade rummages under for another scrap of metal.

"Do you think that's what they do up above?" James comments. "Bloodplay? Who knew that the elite of this hellhole has such kinks."

"Bloodplay?" Q repeats after him and James waggles his eyebrows knowingly. "Is this another nugget of your treasure trove of sex-related knowledge? Don't answer, please - I still want to retain my sanity."

(It is no secret that James trawls the underground bars that open in the night, where women and men alike sell their bodies or look to buy some services. In another life, Q might have been desperate enough to go their way. In another (this) life, James had found someone, lost someone, mourns someone. In this life, James seduces and tries to forget.)

(The only reason (excuse) Q can think of on the rare occasions when he catches himself thinking of the man is that he is simply too young, almost a good two decades beneath the older man. It's not about sexuality or personality; Q is simply too young, and James too jaded for a relationship of any sort. They're better off friends.)

James opens his mouth to possibly say something smart, only to have Kincade thrust something into his hand. "Bring that to the shack, there's a good lad," he grunts, and James frowns at him before obeying. Q smirks at him and goes back to yanking at a stubborn scrap of metal. "Q."

"Yes?" Q asks, entirely distracted by the metal. He has the physical strength of neither Kincade nor James and hence wonders why he even bothers helping out sometimes, but no one's asking.

"Lad. Look at me." Q turns to look at Kincade dutifully, only to have the man regarding him seriously. "Whatever yer read, whatever yer saw - forget it."

Q blinks. "Excuse me?" he says, incredulous.

"I mean it," Kincade says gruffly. "My father went up above once and didn't have pretty stories to tell. I can't remember half o'them for the life of me either. But those up there aren't some nice people, I can tell yer that. Don't go spreading this 'blood tasting' around."

"It's just a bit of fun," Q protests, but the old man looks at him, insistent. He is curious, but Kincade is a friend and an experienced one; they were introduced to each other by his mentor, Bond after - it would be disrespectful to not listen.

"I won't," he promises.

* * *

"Do you lot engage in bloodplay up above," he asks Mallory.

Mallory frowns at him, tucking the thumb drive into a pocket. Today he is dressed in a much more inconspicuous suit, looking more the part of a disgruntled government officer. "Why the question, Mr. Q?" he asks, genuinely surprised. It seems that 'Quartermaster' is a hassle to speak aloud, not that Q cares.

"Saw one of the emails," Q shrugs. "Blood tasting. Why not just use a blood test? What's the point of tasting the blood? You can't even detect diseases with your tongue."

The man gives a small chuckle at that. "Yes, indeed you can't," he says, as if humoring Q. Q gives him a scowl for free. "To business, please. Could you tell me what you have found?"

Q relays to him (almost all of) what he has found and Mallory nods slowly. "Right then," he stands up and draws out a brown envelope of money that Q zeroes in on in a matter of half a second. "Your payment for your troubles," he says as he hands the envelope over. "Thank you, Mr. Q. I hope to work with you again in the foreseeable future."

"I'd rather not," Q says clippedly.

He nods at Q. "That so." Mallory walks to the door, letting himself out. However, before he leaves, he turns around once more. "A bit of friendly advice. Forget the blood tasting. You're better off not knowing the circumstances."

As he leaves, Q stares after his back. He is thankful that he did not tell Mallory everything (what did you take him for, an idiot?) but similarly perplexed. Does Mallory know, he wonders, that the vaccine is three decades delayed?

He turns his laptop on and closes the curtains, flexing his fingers. Kincade and Mallory, both telling him to forget. Two different people. It's too suspicious, he thinks as the laptop whirs, signifying its apparent readiness to be used. When it's too suspicious, he has to find out what else is being hidden. Human curiosity is only natural, isn't that right?

However, instead of the usual blue of his desktop, the screen drops to black instead. Q blinks in alarm before pressing the usual buttons to counter a system failure; efforts that turn out to be in vain. The black screen remains black, until suddenly words type themselves out onto the monitor.

' _Hello_.' It says in flamboyantly cursive script. ' _You must be the Quartermaster. A pleasure to make your acquaintance_.'

(Q forgets to breathe.)

' _You do not know me_.' The white words type themselves out against the black background, one after the other. ' _You do not need to. But know that because of what you hacked into, you are entering a very dangerous game. Your thin and frankly pathetic shield of anonymity will not protect you._ '

' _I am a generous man_ ,' the words type after a pause intended for the earlier sentences to sink in. ' _Tell me who your employer is, and I shall reconsider my current plan of actions - which is, put simply, to terminate you. I believe this a reasonable deal, Quartermaster. What say you?_ '

Q takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. Only ten hackers in the world, and of that ten he can fend off only seven of them. Of that ten, he can hack into eight with them being none the wiser. Of the only two possibilities, one is already dead.

This must be last-rat-standing.

' _Hurry, hurry_.' Text on a computer screen has never seemed more mocking. ' _We don't have all day._ '

Albeit shakily, he reaches out to type his commands into the keyboard. ' _Apologies._ ' he types, and notes with a twitch of irritation that he is given the Comic Sans font. ' _I am under a non-disclosure agreement, and my employer is just as likely to terminate me for breaking said agreement_.' (He's bluffing, but he wouldn't put it past Mallory to do so if it compromises himself.) ' _Also, if the security standard of your servers is likewise frankly pathetic, then I fail to see how they can call you the top hacker of the country._ '

' _Clever_.' The words immediately replies. ' _But my private servers are impenetrable. The servers I use for business has a different sort of security._ '

Q lets out a low whistle, fear taking a backseat in his mind. He has always appreciated a piece of good code, and this is no different. ' _I see now. Let them come in and don't let them back out. Impressive._ '

' _Thank you. :)_ ' He stares a tad incredulously at the smiley face. ' _But back to business. If you do not tell me, I will be forced to terminate you._ '

' _If I do tell you, I'm likely to be terminated anyway, by my employer's hands or yours._ ' Q types back just as quickly. ' _You do not guarantee me any safety with your deal._ '

' _You offer a fair point._ ' Q breathes a bit more easily. ' _You are an interesting person, Quartermaster. Many people would have told me their employer's names by now. You could be an asset to me._ '

' _I'd rather be not involved at all._ ' Q types. He's not going to get caught up in politics of any sort, especially not of those up above. 'last-rat-standing' apparently does not read it, because -

' _I think I'll pay you a visit. :)_ '

Q's blood runs cold. The black screen fades out to his desktop's blue, but the last message remains, burning red against the background until that fades away too.

"Shit," he mutters to himself. "Shit, shit, shit."

* * *

He packs his clothes and his remaining boxes of tea lightly, putting all his valuables and anything that can be used to identify him into a pouch and stuffing it far down his shirt. His laptop sits innocuously on the table, devoid of any light but the message burns in Q's memory no matter what he does. He's more than likely to be compromised; there's only one place he can go to.

The streets outside at night are less than safe, but Q is able to take a risk. If he hurries and stick to the shadows, he could make it to Kincade's in about under thirty minutes. If he's lucky, he won't run into any Snatchers or something alike.

(If you don't behave _, he remembers his mentor saying,_ the Snatchers will come after you. They'll snatch you away and gobble you right up.

That's a fairy tale _, a much younger Q says stubbornly._ Meant to scare kids. M'not a kid.

You're right _, his mentor laughs._ The Snatchers won't eat you at the very least, but there are other things in the dark that will.)

But the Snatchers are still very much real and although not cannibalistic, still dangerous. Q has no desire to end up in the human sex trade (it flourishes, especially in the West district), and an even lesser desire to end up dead in the alleys of the city - so he takes a small kitchen knife and slips it into the sleeve of his brown cardigan, something his mentor had also given to him. The metal is cool against his skin, a reminder of just how precarious a situation he has put himself into.

He locks the door after him and walks briskly away from his house, wondering how long it will be until last-rat-standing will come to his door. It will be foolish, however, to simply hide in a corner and watch the man (woman?) break into his house, so Q does not dwell much - instead, he continues on his way to Kincade's house. The moon gives him light and shadows where the failing lamp posts of his neighborhood gives none, and it is the shadows he sticks to.

It is really a shame then, that he runs into trouble only ten minutes away from his destination.

"Look at what we have here," someone drawls. Q almost stops in his tracks but forces himself to continue walking - the less distance he has to run, the better chance he has. He hopes either James or Kincade will still be awake.

"Hey, hey, hey." A quickening of footsteps behind him, and Q increases his pace. "Are yer lost, boy? I can help yer find yer mother. Why don't yet tell me where yer live, hm?"

The flat of his knife presses against his wrist, and Q fights the urge to immediately take it out. "Hey, boy. Hey! Don't yer ignore me!"

Q breaks into a run. The man yells something unintelligible and gives chase, and Q simply runs faster, urging himself on, reminding himself to never look back. He just has to make it to Kincade's, and then, and then...

Someone tackles him from behind, pinning him down and Q finally slips the knife out of his sleeve and swings wildly at his assailant. Said assailant cries out loudly as the knife sticks into something soft, rearing back in pain, and Q takes the chance to scramble up and continue running. That chance does not last as the Snatcher grabs his ankle and he falls to the ground yet again.

"Feisty little bugger," he snarls as he holds his side and Q down against the ground. Q spits dust out of his mouth. "Should have known yer had a knife about yer somewhere - that hurt like a bitch, yer fucker." He hits across the back of his head, hard, and Q sees stars. "Now come along nicely, yer quite a looker. Might get me a nice sum to get me by." He drags Q up, spouting expletives as the knife digs into his ribs, and hits him across the face this time. "That's fer the knife."

Q swallows blood as he falls to the ground again, and wonders why can he not be as well built as James. It could have saved him a couple punches ago. He struggles as the Snatcher picks him up roughly by the scruff of his neck and shoves him along in the opposite direction. This earns him another hit. "Stop struggling, you little werm - "

"Good evening," someone interrupts coolly. "Nice night out, isn't it?"

They both freeze and stare at this newcomer, who offers them a small smile. It is a comical sight of a sort - one Snatcher in grey uniform splattered with the blood from Q's nose, a stranger dressed in a grey suit jacket with a piss-poor choice of a printed cotton shirt, hair bleached a pale blond and Q himself, bloodied and roughened up - but no one is laughing. The Snatcher leers at the man. "Piss off," he says and takes the knife out of his side with a wince, in the aim of brandishing it at the stranger. The blood gleams wetly on the blade. "Unless yer want to meet with yer maker."

(The stranger's eyes narrow and his pupils dilate, but no one notices.)

"I think not," the man says, pleasant. "Would you let the boy go? I'm not fond of getting my hands dirty. I wore a nice shirt today, too."

"Yer not the one wit' a knife, buddy." Q looks at the man, perplexed - why would any random stranger help him out, especially one so well-dressed for the occasion? Any other sane person would have walked by and pretend not to notice. "Unless yer willing to buy him off my hands. I'm making a living, here."

"I'm afraid I didn't bring my wallet out today," the man shrugs.

"Then no deal. Move," the Snatcher snaps, and Q aims a kick at his knee. There's a crunching sound somewhere and he sincerely hopes that just because there's no pain in his foot it means that the sound came from the Snatcher's knee. The man howls, a sharp discordant sound against the silence of night and Q pries his fingers off and makes a run for it, never looks back.

The Snatcher crumples to the ground, and the stranger strides calmly over. "You'll have to do," he sighs, towering over the fallen man, "even if that boy does smell so much nicer."

"What - " the man says. "Stay away from me, yer hear - "

The knife clatters to the ground, imprinting red onto the dusty pavement.

( _There are other things in the dark_.)

* * *

Q collapses against Kincade's gate, rotting wooden barrier that it is, fumbling with the lock. There's no one chasing after him, but he prefers not to take chances in the night. Just because he escaped from one Snatcher does not mean that there will not be others. Furthermore, there was still last-rat-standing on his tail, and he could be searching for Q for all he knows. The lock finally slides open, and Q stumbles through, hiding in the shadows of the junk piles.

Something cold presses against the side of his head, and he freezes yet again. "Move and I'll shoot," someone says lowly.

He obeys, breath caught in his throat. The tip of the gun pokes him roughly in his ribs and he moves accordingly out into the moonlight. "Turn around," and he does.

James is holding a shotgun to his face, eyes as cold as ice until he recognizes the person he was aiming at. "Q," he says. "What are you doing outside in the middle of the night?"

Q does not look away from the shotgun. "Evening, James. Could you put the gun down before you shoot my face off?"

James snorts but brings the gun down to his side. "Only you, whelp," he says, but frowns when he notices the blood. "Ran into trouble?"

Q nods, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Managed to run into a Snatcher, but I got away." The sleeve comes away bloody, and he winces at the throbbing pain in his nose. "Could we go in?"

"You'd best have a good reason for coming out in the first place," James grumbles, but drags him into the house anyway. Q has never been more thankful for a chair, and revels in the feeling of being off his feet until James brings him a basin of water and a grubby wash cloth. "Clean yourself up, or do you need me to do it for you?"

He grabs the wash cloth and scowls up at James. "I can do it myself, thank you." He hisses as he dabs the dampened cloth against his nose, cleaning the blood off before wetting the cloth again. The water turns an interesting shade of crimson. "Why were you outside?"

"Heard someone making a racket," James says shortly. "Quieten down, Kincade's sleeping. Why were you out?"

Q lowers his voice as per instructions. "I think I'm compromised," he confesses. "He, last-rat-standing, sorry - he hacked into my laptop. Said he'd pay me a visit."

James stares at him, and Q busies himself with wringing the cloth dry and cleaning his face again. "I thought you clever, Q," he says finally, toneless. "A trap. It was a trap, and you walked right into it."

"How was I supposed to know that his company was the one I was hacking into," he protests, but the argument sounds feeble in his own mind. "Besides, it's more of making me into a scapegoat."

"And you were made one, and he's coming after you." Q avoids looking at his eyes, concentrating on the basin of water where it reflects his own face pale and drawn. "What are you going to do now?"  

Q breathes out. "Lay low," he says. "Keep off the internet, and any job offers. Stay away from my house until this all blows over. God, I don't know, James - why would anyone want anything from a hacker from the slums?"

"Because you're easily disposed of," James answers, cutting. Q puts his face in his hands. "Here, no one cares if you die in the slums. Have you forgotten?"

"No. Yes - yes, I have," he mumbles into his hands. "Are you going to kick me out?"

"Don't be ridiculous." James throws a rag of a blanket and a lumpy piece of a pillow at him and it bounces off his head, falling to the floor. "Stay for the night, the next few days. Think it over."

He leans down to pick the pillow up. "Right," he pauses. "Thanks, James," he finally says hesitantly.

James gives no indication of hearing his thanks. He blows the candle out and retreats to his own room, and Q watches as his figure is enveloped by the darkness. He does not sleep even as the moon crawls higher into the sky, lost in his own thoughts and decisions.

If he hears a muffled scream later in the night, it is only his imagination.

* * *

The next two months consists of Kincade giving him two earfuls worth of a lecture almost daily, James watching him like a hawk whenever he turns his back and taking convoluted routes of transport to throw off anyone trailing him. It also consists of him going underground and doing their black market groceries, paying for everything with the money Mallory paid him. It’s the very least he can do.

Besides, James has gotten him the wrong brand of tea once. The effects of that was horrendous - Q could barely stay awake for the whole day, and Kincade later found him draped over a junk pile, having fallen asleep. That night, he finds himself in James’ bed with a ratty blanket over him, and James on the couch. Suffice it to say, James lets him manage his own groceries after that.

The underground of the city used to be for trains - but with the people driven to desperate measures it has been converted into a black market, buying and selling essential and comfort goods. The government probably knows about its existence, but no one bothers to shut it down considering that the people in it are just as desperate enough to rely on the market itself. You were either up above or down below, and the minute differences in occupation and pay does not change a thing.

They part ways at the entrance of the market - James to sell the meat and pelt from what he has managed to hunt down earlier that day, and Q to the store specialising in tea. It's a bloody wonder how they manage to purloin the tea from the plantations in the north, or even the people beyond the city boundaries but Q is not here to ask questions. He buys what he needs, pays what he has to, and moves onto the other necessities.

It's when he's bartering for potatoes someone approaches him. "Hello there," she says, sidling up to him. She's in a grey pencil skirt and a pretty white blouse - a secretary, Q thinks, and nods to her politely before haggling with the irritable shopkeeper.

When the two of them reaches a compromise and Q receives his potatoes, she is still there. Suspicion sets in and he tosses her a quick smile before hurrying away. When he hears heels clicking against the brick of the ground, he turns on her.

"What do you want?" He says lowly. God help him, if this is last-rat-standing he'll still have a chance of overpowering her.

"What do you think of the government?" she says instead and he blinks at her owlishly. Is this a tactic? "Don't you think that we're being oppressed, forced to live in the shadow while those above live in luxury?"

"Don't you think that's an unspoken truth?" he answer brusquely, with emphasis on the 'unspoken'. She looks undeterred, which irks him some - but he is quite sure that this is not last-rat-standing, at the very least. "Do you - "

"Fields!"

James suddenly puts himself between them and grabs the woman's hand, pulling her away from Q. He drags her over to another stall, shooting a very confused Q a look before talking to her in low terse tones. He can't hear what James is saying, but before he can react the woman gives him a quick apologetic look before hurrying off.

"What was that about?" Q says, when James returns.

"She has some fancy revolutionist ideas," James tells him. "Are you finished with your groceries? Let's go."

They slip out one of the entrances, swiftly making their way home. Q does not ask about what they were talking about, just as James has never asked Q what Mallory had assigned him to do. The two men walk in silence for majority of the way.

“Tomorrow’s the health check,” Q says softly. The paper bags rustle against his chin in the chilly autumn breeze.

“A bloody waste of money,” James grumbles under the weight of his own groceries. Q knows that there is a pack of bullets or two hidden in the vegetables themselves. “And ineffective, but we can’t say nothing if we’re not dead.”

“You can’t say anything if you’re dead either,” Q says, if only to prevent himself from saying that the vaccine doesn’t work at all, seventy percent chance. He cannot make random accusations based on conjecture. “Look, Bond, let me -”

“No.” James says firmly, not looking at Q. “You’re not paying for our check up.”

“Why not,” Q demands. He had wanted this to go over smoothly - but of course, this was James fucking Bond. Nothing ever could go over smoothly with him.

“Because Kincade and I can pay for ourselves,” James answers. “Besides, we’re all assigned to different hospitals - it’ll only be a hassle for you.”

“It’s not a hassle if you’d take the money,” Q snaps. “For God’s sake, Bond, I can’t put it into a bank. I have nothing else to use it on but tea and the black market.”

“So use it on that,” James replies brusquely. “We’re not your charity case.”

“I’m not treating you like one, Bond,” Q retorts, because that’s better than saying, ‘because you’re my friends’. “Don’t blame me for labels you put upon yourself.” He quickens the pace of his steps, looking resolutely forward. “It’ll be a waste anyway,” he says, almost in spite, “considering that the jabs don’t work.”

“What,” James says slowly, “did you say?”

(Shit.)

“Q,” and James increases his pace to match his in stride, “what did that guy ask you to find? What did you find out?”

“Non-disclosure agreement, Bond,” Q says hastily, walking fast and faster, “Not at liberty to tell you, sorry -”

“Don’t lie to me, you’re a horrid liar,” James points out before forcing the both of them into a shadow-hidden alley. He stares intently at Q, who coughs in an effort to mask how uncomfortable he is with this situation. “What did you find out about the vaccine?”

“Who was that woman and what does she want?” Q challenges, hoping to divert the topic.

“She's a revolutionist,” James answers, as if it was obvious. “She's trying to start up a revolution, and she was trying to recruit you. Tell me, what did you find out?”

Q looks away. James seems to be telling the truth at any rate - and his glare is still quite uncomfortable. “They’re making a new vaccine right now,” he grits out. “Which is actually quite good save for the fact that they should have been doing it thirty years ago. The current one we have has a seventy percent chance of a failure.”

“Why are they forcing us to take it, then?” James demands.

“Do I look one of them?” Q shoots back.

“Are you?” James counters, but the moment the words are said he seems to realise his mistake. “Q -”

“I have to get going,” Q says acidly, anger burning low in his gut. “Give my regards to Kincade, please. I’ll be heading home now.”

“It’s not safe,” James starts to say, but Q interrupts with a bitter smile. “You can’t very well let someone you can’t trust into your house, can you?” He turns away, head held high. “If you’d excuse me.”

He stalks off, back into the direction of his own house, ignoring any of James’ calls after him. He should have known, he reflects, should have known that James - no, Bond the insensitive prick was only useful around women. He probably had no fucking clue how to deal with friends. The bastard.

Fucking bastard.

* * *

It does take him by surprise when he finds himself on his way back home as he lets his feet lead him in his anger. He supposes that in a way, it reflects how homesick he actually is - for his own bed, his laptop, his own chipped mug - and he couldn't possibly return to Kincade's, if only out of pride.

Besides, he reasons with himself, he has to assess the damage dealt to his house. Surely last-rat-standing's attempts to get in (and out when he realised that Q fled) has left some marks. Perhaps last-rat-standing have also given up on him, considering that no one managed to track him down.

Before he knows it, he stands before his door, which looks exactly as he left it - locked.

This confuses him. Did last-rat-standing pull a bluff on him? He checks the window, where there are also no signs of entry. Q takes the key out of his pocket and gingerly unlocks his door, before entering his house.

The state of the rooms are in disarray, yes, but only because of his haste of two months ago. Everything is exactly where it was left - the cold mug of tea on the table, the laptop near his books, the drawers pulled open.He puts the groceries down and looked in the cupboard - the boxed milk has definitely turned rancid. Shame. Milk does not come cheap.

"I thought you moved."

He slams the cupboard shut and whirls around - and there the stranger, the very one that had interrupted his little 'adventure' with the Snatcher, there he sits in Q's overstuffed armchair (albeit with a white suit and a equally horrid choice of a yellow tie). He looks around the place with a slight air of curiosity. "I should have known, though - that night, do you remember? I was actually looking for you, and I ran into you! Although with more blood of course." He points to his nose, scratching it slightly.

"The door was unlocked. And I let myself in." The man reaches over to the laptop and flips it open, turning it on. "Have I introduced myself? Raoul Silva, or as you probably have already figured out, last-rat-standing. You, of course, must be Quartermaster. There is no other alternative. I believe they call you Q? How fitting." He tuts at the speed of the computer itself. "Ah, no wonder you got caught - the speed of this thing is truly horrid. I must say though; good try. You are quite an expert for someone so young - that's why I didn't think it was you. Thought it'll be someone much older, much fatter," and he laughs. Q sidles over to his stove, where his knives are kept in a nearby drawer. He hopes they're still sharp enough.

"But as it turns out, you're more than pleasant to look at! Such a surprise." Q nudges the drawer open, slowly as Silva looks through his files. The knives shine dully in the fading evening light. "It seems that my efforts of waiting paid off after all. But enough of me. What about you, Mr. Q? Why did you keep me waiting? It was so very rude of you to do so."

Q puts on a strained smile. "I did emphasize that I'd rather be left alone."

"You did," he hums in agreement. "But you are too precious to be left on your own - you could be so much more, with a better computer for one. This… antique probably dates back to the 21st century." He flicks the lid of the laptop almost affectionately. "And you know so, so much."

"Nothing that will be of use to you," Q says quickly.

"But to others? It might be." He shrugs, then leans forward as if to tell Q a secret. "You see, the best way to ensure something happens is to keep it in your sight. And you, darling boy, can be so useful to me." His smiles widens, flashing a bit of teeth. "What do you know about us up above?"

Q stares him down, clenching his hands to keep them from shaking. "You lot are rich," he says shortly, then adds, "and engage in weird sexual kinks such as bloodplay."

Silva stares at him, then laughs heartily. "That is just," he chokes between peals of laughter. Q wonders (hopes) if he can choke to death. It would take a whole problem off his hands. "Just, hilarious. Bloodplay?"

"Why would you have blood-tasting tests, then?" he snaps. The laughter peters off and the man regards him almost warily.

"Why indeed," he murmurs. He stands up and walks towards the kitchen, and Q starts to fumble for a knife, any knife. "You see, my dear, you can't really tell me that you don't know anything and then surprise me with this little fact seconds after. I'm afraid you really forced my hand - you've given me far too little of a choice."

"Stay back," Q warns him, gripping the knife in front of him. "I'm not going to work for you or get terminated by you. If you get any closer, I will stab you."

Silva chuckles low in his throat, an almost rumbling purr. "How aggressive of you. It's such a shame that you're so easily distracted." Q blinks and suddenly Silva is next to him, pinning the hand holding the knife to the kitchen counter, the other hand coming to rest on Q's neck. He breathes in sharply - how did the man of such a bulk move so fast - as the man's thumb rests just on his pulse. "Tell me something. Why do you taste your food?"

"To see whether it's delicious," Q says immediately, entirely too uncomfortable with this man's hand on his neck, and too powerless to strike back. He looks up mutinously into Silva's eyes, noting the coldness behind the amused glint.

"Good, very good," the man nods, pleased. He brings his mouth close to Q's ear, and he stiffens. "So why," he whispers, "do you think we taste the blood?" He brings his mouth down to replace his hand (which in turn comes to rest on Q's hips), huffing a quiet laugh into the skin. Something (teeth, Q registers, faintly) sharp scrapes lightly across the expanse of his neck, before pressing down -

Q's other hand finally flies up to slap Silva's face off his neck and he twists away, intent on escaping. The upper echelons of society has a fucking vampire, he thinks as he panics, tugging furiously on the hand Silva holds captive. Silva himself laughs breathlessly.

"So this is why you had a bleeding nose," and then he slams Q against the cupboard. His glasses falls off his nose and the world is a mess of colors blurred at the edges, then Silva is back in his personal space, his teeth resting against his neck, and he bites.

_Fuck, that hurts like a bitch_ , Q thinks, his words a calm contrast to the panic in his mind.

He struggles but Silva pins him down against the hard surface of his refrigerator anyway, rendering him immobile. The man sucks lightly on his neck, the wet muscle of his tongue flicking over his skin and although Q should be putting up even more of a fight, his movements and thoughts turn sluggish instead. It is a feeling of almost bliss, encouraging him to let go and simply float, to not worry about the vampire on him…

(Hell no, something says viciously.)   

Out of sheer desperation, he brings his leg up and tries to knee Silva hard in the gut, and the man withdraws looking much more annoyed than hurt.

His head clears almost instantly, and Q jerks back, disbelieving. There is a trace of blood (his blood) on Silva's lips which the man licks at, and Q feels blood trickling down his collarbone which Silva's eyes are immediately drawn to. They stand there at an impasse until Silva says, "feisty."

Q bristles.

"It is such a shame you won't come willingly," he continues, as if he is commenting on the weather. "Your blood is as nicer than what I usually taste. That's how I came across the two of you, you must know - the scent of your blood was everywhere." He sniffs disdainfully after, but his eyes are still unwaveringly focused on Q's neck. "I had to make do with that man though - he didn't taste as delicious as you. Had a bitter tinge to his blood. I had to drink some water to wash it down."

The silence continues. "Is there no way to convince you to work for me?" Silva finally asks softly.

"Not after you just drank my blood," Q tells him. He can still feel his face stretched in incredulity. "You're, you're a vampire."

"I am, in a loose sense of the term," and Silva heaves a long suffering sigh. "Not by choice, but blood has become an acquired taste, if you will.  As for your reluctance, Mr. Q, I just have the solution for that. I've been around these parts, for the past two months, and I notice - not only you, of course, since I didn't know such an adorable boy could be the great Q - but I notice that you always head to this quaint little recycling shack where a certain old man and his adopted son lives?"

Q bites his lips and something must show on his face, because Silva says, "bingo? I do love that game. Let's say you do not comply, Mr. Q. I will burn that shack down and kill the both of them. And they did absolutely nothing at all, only offered you shelter from a big, bad wolf." His smile widens, fully displaying his fangs and Q shivers. "Such a horrid way to repay their kindness, you ungrateful child. Such a horrid boy."

Q considers his options - but there isn't much, not really. James will be livid if he knows that he is being used as a bargaining chip and Kincade may probably blow the vampire's head off with his own shotgun. The very thought brings a wry twist to his lips but it does not last long. Silva will definitely carry out his threats.

"Fine," he forces the words out. Silva lights up like a child who has received his Christmas present. "You win, Mr. Silva. I'll go with you."

"Mr. Silva," he repeats. "Hm, I like the sound of that, especially from your mouth. Come, dear boy." He slides an arm around Q's waist and nuzzles at where the blood has congealed, licking the skin there lightly just for a taste. Q fights not to flinch, and fails; Silva chuckles. "Shall we? I've brought a car."

On any other occasion, Q may have been suitably impressed. On this occasion, the mark of luxury only seems to be a prison to him - he ignores the leather upholstery and advanced system as they get into the car, the way the vehicle starts to move smoothly as if gliding along air, the way a wine glass immediately rises up from the armrest as Silva presses a button. Instead, he tries not to think of what could be ahead of him.

"So glad you decided to come, Mr. Q," Silva whispers into his ears, stroking his knuckles.

Q closes his eyes.

* * *

Silva leaves him alone for the majority of his trip and after, attending to his own business through the medium of a laptop. Q ignores him wholeheartedly, keeping to his own side of the seats and watching as they speed through his neighbourhood an into the centre of the city where the Tube connects the cities below and above together. He keeps his eyes open as they ascend along with the lift in the Tube, taking in the landscape of the city Below - it may as very well be the last time he sees it.

(He wishes that he had time to say goodbye.)

Then he cannot see even the fading streetlights as they plunge into darkness, save for Silva's laptop; and emerge into the city above. It takes his breath away - buildings of glass and metal that are more likely than not to be architecturally impossible, cars like Silva's own and even more extravagant. The roads are smoother, smooth as silk as they are driven out of the Tube's exit, leaving behind a huge iridescent dome-shaped building.

(As he takes all these new sights in, he spends the time coming to terms with his own situation, as well as with the existence of vampires. Later, Q will wonder if that time in silence is an act of mercy on Silva's part, like the time given to a prisoner before he is to be hanged.)

He is not unfamiliar with the concept of a vampire itself - his mentor has told him stories of such creatures, but only as something firmly grounded in the realm of fiction. Therefore he finds it hard to reconcile the man seated beside him with a classical vampire. One that shies away from daylight, garlic and stakes, one that lives in dreary old castles and sleeps in coffins, one with pale skin and red eyes.

As far as he has seen, Silva has brown eyes and a skin tone that borders on tan. He had also been lurking about Q's neighborhood in broad daylight. The only thing remotely vampiric is the fact that he has fangs and has in fact drunken Q's blood.

It is more than unsettling, but it is his situation whether he chooses to accept it or not. He decides to observe the people walking along the pavement of Silva's neighborhood - who dons clothes of fantastical (and often ridiculous) designs, in splashes of bright colours and shimmering materials. They seem unperturbed by problems of any sort, walking along gaily in their little bubbles of self-importance.

He wonders if they know that a vampire lives amongst them. He wonders if they would even care.

The car turns through a gate and into an estate where a skyscraper towers over them, and he (rightly) assumes that this is Silva's residence. The man himself finishes up his business with a satisfied sigh, before leaning over and snagging the sleeve of Q's cardigan to get his attention. "Apologies for the long ride," he says, playing the part of a good host. "But you do live so far away. Welcome to my... humble little tower."

"You have a limited range of vocabulary," Q says dryly, refusing to look at him.

"And you have a sense of humour," Silva says good-naturedly. "Now shall I give you a tour, or would you like to be shown to your room?"

"You're giving me a choice."

"Since you said that, no," Silva admits. "I am very proud of my tower, and it pains me to be unable to show it off to everyone. So I shall show whomever I can - and that, my friend, includes you. Shall we?"

The car stops and he escorts Q into the building, eagerly pointing out any and all of his own designs. That room, he tells his new house guest, is furnished according to his own design. That rather large and flat television screen is bought with the latest profit off his business.

(This lovely contraption was to kill for, he says as he strokes the gleaming metal almost lovingly. I simply had to have it. The owners have fortunately passed away due to an unfortunate accident and I just swooped in and took it.)

(Q wonders how much of that is true.)

The tour ends in front of an unassuming white door with an automatic lock. Silva keys the password into the pad and throws the door open with a flourish when the light flashes green. “And this is where you will be staying,” he announces, actions grandiose and Q steps through the door.

The (his) room is apparently furnished like the rest of the building he has been shown to - sleek and curved edges in the chairs and tables, closet and bed. He lets his fingers run over the soft dark material of the couch, the silky sheets of the bed and the white plastic of the writing desk; Silva favours what seems to be a black and white minimalistic theme. The only thing of colour are the bedsheets - a rich dark maroon with no particular pattern. The discrepancy in design rankles Q, but he makes no comment.

“It is late,” Silva says. Q stands still, hovering over the table with his back firmly presented to the man. “You’ll begin work tomorrow. I’ll have someone bring you a laptop and inform you of your first assignment.”

Q does not reply, choosing instead to look out of the glass window that makes up one whole wall of the room. He could see the lights of the city below, shifting and changing rapidly from shade to shade - and further out he can see a faint blue barrier, boxing the city in. He knows that beyond that barrier and down is his home, where he lives - lived, where James and Kincade is.

The thought of James now hurts, especially after that rather stupid and pointless fight that they had. Q could have just hacked into the system and paid for it before James could. He hopes that James would be angry enough to not look for him - a vampire is the last thing he wishes onto his friends. He rather them alive and himself dead.

“I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning,” Silva suddenly says next to his ears, dangerously close. Q jerks but stays in place, unwilling to let whatever pride he has left slip away the moment he shows more fear than necessary of this man. Silva chuckles and snakes an arm around his waist, pulling him close. “Someone will be here to collect you,” he noses at the crook of Q’s neck, where the blood has dried and Q holds himself impossibly tight, tensed for another bite. The man might just take his supper. “So please ready yourself.”

He releases him and smoothly makes an exit, the automatic lock flashing red as the door swings close after him. Q lets out a breath (of relief? of resignation?) before turning back to the window. His reflection stares back at him, grimy and out of place in this room and he looks out again at the shifting blue barrier. Was it to protect the residents, or to keep them in?

He stares for a few more minutes, fiercely missing home down below, missing Kincade and missing James. They should be asleep, he hazards. Perhaps Kincade would berate James, he thinks. Or perhaps he would tell James to give Q some time...

And he stops thinking, because there's no time for him to take anymore. Q turns abruptly away from the window and lies down on the bed without preamble, closing his eyes. Maybe, just maybe this will all be a bad dream, he thinks as the silk sheets of the bed slither under his weight. Maybe.

The bed is soft, the pillows stuffed with feathers and the blanket smooth; but Q lies awake for most of the night, the luxury uncomfortably foreign to him. He lies awake and tries not to think.

(He fails.)

* * *

"Up."

Q blinks awake - a woman's face hovers over him, her countenance amused. She smiles at him, but her eyes simply doesn't.

"Get up," she repeats. "Raoul's waiting for you."

"Raoul?" Q asked, bleary. Was that one of his colleagues? "Who's Raoul."

"Raoul Silva," the woman says patiently. "Mr. Silva?"

Silva.

Q sat up, almost smashing his skull into her nose - if it wasn't for her quick step back. "Sorry," he hastily apologizes. "What time is it?"

"Nine," she tells Q. "He's been waiting for an hour. He sent me to check on you, Mr. Q."

Q groaned. "Thanks for waking me," he tells her, "but could I go back to sleep? I don't exactly want to meet him."

She smiles, wan. "I'm afraid that isn't an option," and her eyes shift to the side. Nervous? "An hour is a long time, Mr. Q. Some men do not appreciate being stood up."

She gestures at his wardrobe. "You will find appropriate clothes in there," she tells him. "I'll inform Raoul that you were asleep and will meet him shortly."

"Who are you?" Q asks.

"Someone like you," she smiles again, but it never reaches her eyes. "Call me Severine."

"Severine," he repeats and she nods. "Call me Q."

"Very well," she tells him. "Bathe quickly, Q. And keep the appointments next time."

Someone like him, Q wonders as he trudges into the bathroom, and promptly forgets what Severine says the moment he sees the washroom.

It's huger than his living room. There is a humongous tub that would fit about five people comfortably, although Q will never understand why would anyone want five people in one tub all at the same time. The shower head dangles above said tub, and one side consists of an array of colourful buttons.

It all seems very fancy. Q walks over and presses a random blue button.

Instead of water, the tub fills up with what seems to be a blue solution with a flowery scent, complete with foam and bubbles on its surface. Q stares at the tub, fascinated. He presses another random button and the water rains down from above, popping the bubbles and turning the water from blue to an interesting shade of lilac.

Is this what the factories at the South-Western end produce? Q presses a couple of more buttons, just to see - the tub drains and fills itself with a white liquid that smells remarkably like milk, a panel opens and a flock of rubber ducks floats out, another panel reveals a slice of cake on a plate.

The cake is lovely, Q muses as he swipes a finger into the thick icing and licks it. He presses a particularly large button.

The milk and ducks drains away into a hole and the shower head begins to spray a clear liquid of some sort. After a few moments of waiting for something to happen, Q realises that the clear liquid was water.

Oh.

Feeling rather foolish, he strips and climbs into the tub to wash himself down quickly. Silva is still waiting, and Q wasn't sure how long he had spent experimenting with the buttons.

There's a large fluffy towel on the rack when he's done washing himself of sweat, dirt and grime and he wraps himself in it. Unsure of what to do with his clothes, he merely brings it with him when he leaves the toilet.

"I see you discovered the bathtub," Silva says pleasantly, perched on the bed.

Q nearly drops his towel.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For the end of a period of time in my life, where I discovered things I never wanted to know about myself.
> 
> Title of work from 'King and Lionheart' by Of Monsters and Men.


End file.
